how i spent my summer vacationI stayed in San Francisco last night, and took a bus up to the north bay where my parents live this morning. It's a bus that travels 45 miles but makes local stops the whole way, so the trip clocks in at almost three hours. I spent a good portion of the trip thinking about what to say about being at yesterday's game, and I still haven't got much more than "wow" and "damn."
I was there with my best friend from high school (happily clueless about anything and everything to do with baseball) and one of her good friends from undergrad (a Massachusetts transplant). I didn't realize what was happening until the Lugo error in the fifth, when the As fans in front of us started taunting, "There goes your perfect game!" at the top of their lungs. I thought, "huh" and then I looked at his pitch count on the scoreboard and thought, "huh." After the bottom of the sixth, I turned my friend-of-a-friend and said, "So, are we gonna start not talking about it?" and my friend said, "What do you mean?" and we both said, "We can't talk about it! We'll tell you later."
It was a weird thing to watch while rooting for the opposing team. I've never seen anything close to a no-hitter at home, but I can imagine that the superstitious Fenway crowd would get quiet, while the Oakland fans were screaming and shouting the whole way, doing everything they could to will their team to break it up. (And good for them -- rooting for the no-hitter for the love of the game while watching a random Cubs v. Cardinals game on Sunday Night Baseball is fine, but rooting for your team should come before everything else.) I don't know, man, I really thought it he had it. His pitch count was freakishly low, he actually had a Major League Baseball player in right field for a change (I kid, Wily Mo, I kid), but watching baseball has always been like watching a movie where the plot's being written by a slot machine, you can never guarantee that the big pay-outs will come when they ought to. And anyway, a win is a win, all that good stuff, etcetera. Still, wow. Damn.
(One thing that was obscured by the molar-grinding last half of the game: we were sitting up in the left field bleachers, and the bleacher creatures were in full effect, including their percussion band. And I swear to God, sometime in the bottom of the second inning, Manny was shaking his hips back and forth, dancing along to the beat.)